Fertile (BH:D70)

October 12, 2011

Within 15 days, the government has promised me my PAN card now that I have submitted the application. The lady at the counter had exquisite handwriting with which she put down my name and receipt number in the acknowledgement card. In the building that houses the UTI's PAN card office at Vellayambalam, an incredible array of businesses running out of tiny offices. Mutual funds, printing services, software outsourcers, travel agents!

After successful application, onward to BSNL office to pay up for a whole year of broadband connection. Misplaced hope. The office was understaffed. The Junior Telecom Office, the energetic Mr. John, was on leave. We explained our situation. Paper bills are not coming. We don't want to be disconnected again. We would like to pay for the whole year thereby getting 2 months off and have the 20% discount available for government employees and pensioners applied. Yet another form to be filled. 

"Bankukarku discount undo ennariyila," (Don't know if bankers get the discount) a short, dark, bald uncle with a thin mustache, expressed his doubt. We invoked Mr. John's name. The uncle dialed John to find out. Yes, the discount is there. Promptly, power failure. We wait outside in the worker's union lounge that consists of 4 chairs and two tables and numerous notices pasted on the boards and walls all around: "No smoking" "Protest the withdrawal of medical allowance" "Voluntary Retirement Scheme is a scam" etc and finally "Silence". 

I guess only the notices are allowed to scream in slogans.

Power comes back on. The painful wait for Windows boot up on HCL machine. I tell the bearded, long haired, younger man at the counter our telephone number. 

"Ningalku bill illa" (You have no bill) he says with a justified confusion in his tone. 

"Ini connection cut aavaruth, advance aayittu paisa adakamo" (connection should get cut again, can we pay in advance) Achan asks. 

"Ethra venamengilum adakkam, bill varumbo deduct aavum" (You can pay as much as you want, it will be deducted from the bill) 

"Pakshe bill varunilalo" (But bills are not coming). 

The short uncle comes up with an explanation. "Ippo Keralam, Tamil Nadu, Andhra..."(these days Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Andhra) he pauses to recollect the other neighboring state's name while chewing on some bit of breakfast he has managed to discover lodged in his molars. "Karnataka!" he says with a flourish sucking in that piece into the oblivion of his stomach and smacking his lips. "ee statesinte ellam billing angu Hyderabadil aanu. Pandu ivide thanne aayirunnu. Ippo atha ellam delay" he finished the explanation. (All these states are no billed in Hyderabad. It used to be done here in the past.  Hence all the delay now). 

The younger man at the counter sips hot milk from a glass as he prepares the receipt for our advance payment. Two three men appear in lungis from inside as if they had just woken up. I wonder if there is a BSNL staff quarters operating out of the same building. One of them carries a glass of black tea. I think all the milk is being consumed at the counter. Our next destination was the fertilizer depot inside the city near Chettikulangara temple. We speculate that there must be an outlet somewhere near by. 

"Ivide aduthu valam depo undo saare?" (Is there a fertilizer depo near by) I ask. The in-counter specialist wipes his milk mustache. Of course, there is, he says. An organic one, on the way to Sasthamangalam. 

As we leave the other uncle promises to get our details into the system in "5 minutes". After that we simply have to the office at Statue Junction and pay.

We collect the receipt and head over to that depot. On the way Achan wants to stop by at the plant nursery to check for tissue culture banana saplings. Achan is on a horticulture spree after the coconut tree has been cut down. Yesterday he planted brinjal, tomatoes, okra, thulasi. In the afternoon, he cut down some of the overgrown trees and shrubs in the garden. 

Disappointment at the plant nursery. They don't have banana saplings. And only one kind of hibiscus. But the young man assisting the toothless old lady who manages the nursery in her traditional lungi and towel attire, guides us to two outlets near Ayurveda College Junction. We recognize the places he mentions because both of us, Achan and I, grew up in that area. 

We head to that location in an autorickshaw named "Krishnendu Ragendu" . I presume those are the names of the driver's kids. The windshiled of the rickshaw has numerous miniature Hindu gods stuck on it. 

As we near the old secretariat, the police are putting on their riot guards and helmets. Yet another round of student strike is schduled for today. We curse this daily hassle and destruction of public property. "Ivaru prathipakshathirunnale valla anakkavum ullu," (But only if the Left parties are in opposition, there will be some movement like this) our driver expresses solidarity with the young comrades about to block the road. 

"Will you be happy with the 'movement' if a stone breaks your vehicle's glass?" I ask him. He smiles. We become friends. He drops us at the perpetual horticulture fare outside the Khadi sales outlet and waits while we buy two tissue culture bananas: Njalipoovan and Koombilakannan. 

"Vere enthu vennam?" (what else do you want?) asks the sales lady impatient to get rid of us. She refuses to make eye contact.  Achan picks up two packets of organic fertilizer. "One spoon each every fortnight for vegetables" she gives the instruction while scribbling down the receipt. 

The rickshaw takes us next to the Indian Potash Limited's outlet. Traffic congestion on the way since the main road is closed thanks to students agitating for their rights by not going to their classes. Achan goes inside to make the purchase. Driver initiates conversation, "ithinu munpe tissue culture vachittundo?" (have you planted tissue culture bananas before). 

I nod yes claiming the success of my cousin's Robusta bananas as our own. 

"Chengadali vaykumbo sookshikkanam" (you should be careful when you plant chengadali variety) he becomes serious. 

"Athentha?) (Why?) I get curious. I anticipate a dose of great Indian "wisdom" coming. And sure enough it does, "Sthreekal aduthu poyale athu pattu pokum" (It will dry and die if women go near it). 

"Chumma" (Nonsense) I say half dismissively and half prompting him to go on.

"Eee mensus aayirikumbozhe" (When they have their periods) he clarifies

"Oho" (Really?) I pretend to be impressed by his "logic" bit.

"Pinne! bhagawante pazham alle" (Of course, it is god's banana)

"Veruthe" (Can't be true)

"Angane aanu parayunathu" (Thats what they say) he concludes with the classic Indian disclaimer which brings in the hidden 'they'!

An old lady, fair, a bit plump and sweaty, walks up the rickshaw. She shows us the photocopy of a newspaper cutting that has her photograph on it. "Heart Patient seeks assistance for surgery" it says. She doesn't say anything. I give her some money. She takes it. Walks a few yards. She coughs. Spits phelgm. Continues to walk into the Mas hotel in the same compound. The sun is hot. She has no umbrella. She uses the paper for shade.

Achan returns with two packets. Sterameal, the old reliable, and Micronal, supposed to be fantastic mixture of copper and magnesium for coconut trees. "As soon as you have sprinkled it under the tree, brand new coconuts will fall on your head," he jokes. He was delayed in the shop becomes some retired employee was engaging the staff in useless conversation. Further delay because he called somebody as "Susheela's guy" leading to much protest from Susheela and her friends in the staff. 

We proceed in search of the new location of Krishi bhavan. The brand new building of Bhima gold jewelry had displaced it much like how agriculture has been replaced by gold in the Malayali mind. The old building housed some of my oldest memories. I would accompany Achan there to buy full banana fruit stems. I used to be fascinated by the flat beam weighing scale with the movable balancer on top. 

We find the old, tile roofed, tottering building that is the new home of Krishi bhavan office,  a few meters down the road from Dhanya-Ramya theater. 20 ft cut-out of Karthika Nair in her Makaramanju costume towers over the theater. A fading blackboard hanging outside Krishi bhavan announced that it is a center for "parasite breeding". That is not a comment on the state of the building. It is indeed one of the seven centers in Kerala that supplies bio-control parasites that destroy coconut leaf eating caterpillars. 

Rickshaw driver follows Achan into the building, looks around and comes back. "Saarinu chembarathi vennam alle? (He is looking for Hibiscus stem cuttings, right?) he seeks my confirmation. I tell him that we had over a dozen different types of hibiscus in our garden ten years ago. Now all of them are gone. Achan is trying recreate that garden. Hibiscus needs minimal attention and maintainence. The driver points to the two hibiscus plants in the house across the street. "Poyi kambu chodikkam" (Shall we go ask them for some stems?) he is keen on our garden too. Achan comes back with the telephone number of the Agriculture officer. He will call us once he collects varieties of hibiscus. "Who on earth would pay for hibiscus?!" he had asked Achan.

*******************

In the train, while returning from Munnar, a middle-aged lady had come from the next compartment to chat with her friends in ours. She was one of those desi henna-dyed brunettes. She had the perpetual expression of a kid in a candy store. It is impossible to imagine that face unhappy. When it was time for her to go back to her seat, she stopped to ask the TTE sitting next to me, "What time it will come? Trivandrum? When it will come?" 

It is common in India for places to come to the train rather than the train getting to places. So the trees outside the train window are indeed speeding past, perhaps on errands like the tree in Transtromer's garden on the rainy night! When our train was delayed with unscheduled stops, I presumed that the proud, old Thiruvananthapuram had an incredible capacity to delay coming!

R. K. Narayan wrote an essay in the 70s about Nobel prizes. I don't know if mentioned it in earlier notes. He correctly points out that though people don't talk much about the Nobel winners in Physics, Chemistry and Life Sciences, every Shaji, Baiju and Soman (Kerala equivalent of Tom, Dick and Harry) considers himself fully qualified to pass an opinion about the prizes for Peace and Literature. R.K. mentions how the prize hardly makes any difference to an aged and established writer. Kawabata told Narayan that he was planning to buy a chair in Sweden with the prize money for guests like Narayan who find it difficult to sit on the floor. I read Kawabata's acceptance speech today. For someone who committed suicide soon after, in the speech, he is strongly against taking one's own life!

I had written a two line appreciative email to Shanti Acharya whose pithy poem, Beware, I had posted last week. She replied inviting me to attend her poetry reading in London to be held tomorrow. She asked if I was a poet myself or just an enlightened read which according to her is as good as being a poet. 

I cannot speak for anyone else but the structure of my thoughts are inseparably tied to what I read or listen to. This is why I prefer reading quality poetry or slightly philosophical meaningful prose. Over the years, I have realized that any new medium has the capacity to weak havoc on my thought process. I remember the dreaded days in which my thoughts resembled movie dialogues, comic strips, TV headlines, facebook status updates, formal dissertation, sales pitches, MATLAB commands, comedian routines, text messages, tweets and so on. It is conscious effort to avoid the overwhelming onslaught of any new "channel" these days. But worded thoughts do need a channel and I'd rather it be poetry, lyrics or prose whose meaning endows it poetry! 

And with that thought onto the musical trivia for the day. This song heralded the Lata Mangeshkar era in Hindi cinema. Nobody had cared much about the new singer when the recording started. But there was pin-drop silence when Lata finished singing. Composer Khemchand Prakash was the first to run to the singer to congratulate her. Director Kamal Amrohi soon followed. 

The heroine was to enter the frame singing and move towards the camera, so in those days of primitive recording technology, Lata had to walk towards the microphone from a distance. But the actress never succeeded in lip syncing correctly to this song so it was used mostly in the background. Nevertheless, the song made the leading lady Hindi cinema's first dream girl. In those days, the singers' names were rarely mentioned in the record label. The character's name would be used. So against this song, the heroine's name, Kamini, appears. Lata Mangeshkar has not yet received her payment for this song!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03DXW_rV54U